


Tyger Tyger

by NeverwinterThistle



Category: Far Cry 4
Genre: M/M, Manipulation, Post-Game, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 17:17:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2740598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/pseuds/NeverwinterThistle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lot of people fall around here - and the tigers are starting to circle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tyger Tyger

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the William Blake poem. Maybe tread a bit carefully if emotional abuse is a sensitive topic for you - Sabal is not a good person here. Full spoilers for a game where Ajay sides with him, (and this won't make sense if you aren't aware of the post-game scene at Jalendu).

"There you are," Sabal says as he carefully closes the door behind him. It's quieter inside. Back in the streets, the victory celebrations are starting to warm up. Banapur won't be sleeping tonight. "I was about to send out a search party." His smile is quick, distracted; worse, it's warm enough to be believable. The maps spread across the table recapture his attention before Ajay can reply.

 _Not even worth a second of your time anymore,_ Ajay thinks. He's suspected something like this for longer than he wants to admit. But, god, he didn't want it to be true.

"I...wasn't sure I'd be welcome here." There's a chair by the door. He pulls it over, straddles it, chin resting on his elbows. Everything hurts. That's not so unusual, these days; pain's been a constant companion ever since he arrived. But it was easier to deal with when he had a goal in mind - _conquer this outpost, hunt that animal, kill those men, kill Noore, Yuma, kill, kill, kill the king_.

It's over.

He's so fucking tired.

"Not welcome?" A frown; it lasts longer than the smile, and this time Sabal meets his eyes for longer than it takes to acknowledge, then dismiss him. "Why wouldn't you- _oh_." A sharp intake of breath, and Ajay wants to believe that the hurt appearing on Sabal's face is something more than showmanship. Anything more than another lie to keep the son of Mohan loyal. "You're referring to our little...disagreement earlier, I take it?"

"That's what you want to call it, sure." He closes his eyes for a moment. The dark brings an echo of blood-slick kukris and Bhadra's broken, golden smile, Jalendu looming behind her like a crumbling mountain. Avalanche approaching, and she's in its path. Right where he put her.

He opens his eyes when he feels Sabal approach, light on his feet as a tiger in the forest.

"Brother," he says. "Look at me."

"I'm looking."

"I thought you'd understand." Sabal leans back on the desk, folding his arms. Smudges of black (gunpowder? Coal? Ash?) on his neck; he must have missed them when he was washing the blood off. Or left them there intentionally. He'd do that. He's all about appearances, it turns out.

Sabal is not everything he pretends to be.

"Yeah, well, you thought wrong." His head's still fucked up from the Utkarsh artillery. Shell-shocked; literally. It feels like his ears aren't working the way they should be, and he's just so...tired. Lakshmana lurks just out of reach but he's keeping her quiet for now. Later, they'll talk. Later, he'll find a quiet place to sit down and turn the words _I had a sister_ over in his mind. See how it feels. Right now he's not really feeling much at all. Just exhaustion.

Sabal watches him with a matching weariness. This, at least, seems real.

"My mistake," he says. "And I'm sorry for it; I didn't mean to hurt you. But you must see that you left me no choice, acting as you did. Questioning my judgement-"

"I asked you to _wait_!"

"In front of my soldiers." Sabal's retort is sharp, shocking; it feels like a slap to the face. "You challenged me when- Haven't you been paying attention this whole time? Did you miss what happened with Amita? How she almost ruined us? One leader, brother, and only one. One voice, or all you get is confusion for the enemy to exploit. We _must_ present a united front to our followers, don't you see?" He sighs, unfolding his arms and running a hand over his face. Rubbing the bridge of his nose. "But I admit, I treated you poorly. You deserved better than what I gave you, and that's on me. I'm sorry."

Ajay finds his voice somewhere and hopes it doesn't come out too hoarse. Because...this is what he wanted. What he needed to hear. This is exactly it; sounds so right it almost sounds rehearsed. "Yeah. Yeah, me too. I wasn't really thinking. There's been so much death, and I just thought-"

"Not in front of the child."

"Basically."

"But she's not a child, Ajay," Sabal says, tone softening. "She is the Tarun Matara, the living goddess who walks among us. The blood we shed is in her name; she'll be seeing plenty of it in the months to come. Better to teach her the way of things now. The young heal quickly, and she's no exception." He shrugs. "I was a few years younger than her when I saw my parents die."

"I'm sorry-"

"Don't be. They died bravely, for the sake of their country. Sometimes these things are necessary. And I don't deny, there will be suffering. There always is. We suffer, and then we heal, in the light of Kyra's mercy. The Tarun Matara... She'll be fine."

"Does it ever end?" His head feels heavy where it rests on his forearms. Ajay rolls his neck slowly, wincing at the crack of bone, the pull of muscle. He'll spend weeks paying for the last few days' excitement. More time in pain, trying to force his body back into health through willpower and green Kyrati herbs. "When does it stop?"

"Soon, I promise you. That's what we've been fighting for, what our brothers have died for. A brighter future. One in which we do not have to sacrifice our culture to the oppressor. That's the gift you've given us. We won't soon forget it." Sabal pauses, a smile forming on his face. Like all his smiles, it's intoxicating to look at. " _I_ won't forget it. I'm glad you're here."

"You asked me to come home."

"And here you are." Sabal reaches out, clasps one of Ajay's shoulders. He looks the way he did all those weeks back, after Durgesh; after god-knows how many hours spent kneeling at Ajay's bedside, praying for his survival. Benevolent; beautiful.

 _And he knows it,_ Ajay thinks. It doesn't stop him from clasping Sabal's forearm in appreciation. It doesn't stop the gratitude, the trust he thought he'd lost for good. He wants to believe in this man. _Bet he knows that too._ "What happens now?"

" _Now_ , meaning today? Or _now_ in general?" Sabal steps back, beckoning, and like a trained dog Ajay rises from his seat to follow. Though _staggers_ would be more accurate; his muscles protest at the movement. He leans heavily on the table when he reaches it, his shadow falling across the maps.

"Are you hurt?" Sabal gives him a sharp look. Worried.

 _You need me in one piece_ , Ajay thinks, letting the table take most of his weight. _You need people to see me on your side, ready to fight for you. Can't have the prodigal son showing weakness_.

"It's been a rough couple of days," he says flatly. "I think that artillery messed me up a little. I'll be fine."

"If you're sure. Let me know if you think it's not getting better; I'll find you a doctor."

"Yeah. Sure. Thank you."

Sabal gestures to the map of Kyrat, a mess of coloured flags and annotations. "There are pockets of resistance left all over the country. It'll be a while before we can clean them all out, and in the meantime we need to consider ways to get the Tarun Matara's words out to her people. Pagan used the bell towers; it's not such a bad idea. We're also facing impending starvation - too many of our farms converted to drug production."

"That's...a problem."

"We have solutions in mind. The first few winters will be difficult ones, but we'll survive. Things will get easier after that. Kyra will not abandon us in our time of need."

"Glad to hear it."

In the distance, something explodes. Ajay flinches, draws the gun at his hip before he can think; aims for the door (flimsy wood, and he knows from experience exactly how long it would take for bullets to shred it), breathes deep.

_Royal Guard stragglers or Amita? Doesn't matter anyway, I can take them. I can-_

Common sense catches up a few seconds later.

"Fireworks?" He glances over to find Sabal shaking his head, laying an assault rifle back on the chair next to him.

'Looks like. I suppose it would have killed them to give us some fucking _warning_ ," he shrugs the irritation out of his tone and forces a patient smile into place. "But festivities are to be expected. There'll be bonfires burning all night long, singing, dancing. And fireworks, apparently."

Ajay returns the gun to its holster, holding back another twitch as the explosions start up again. He isn't sure how to feel about how trigger-happy he's become recently. It's a new development. One of many. "Guess we've earnt them."

"We have. You _will_ celebrate with us, won't you? It'll do people good to see you out there, triumphant. The son of Mohan-"

"Stop."

That shuts him up. Ajay watches the shift in expressions, warmth ( _almost certainly fake_ ) to confusion ( _probably real_ ) to distance. It's like Jalendu all over again, only this time there are no witnesses to justify the actions of the man he honestly thought was his friend. His...god, he doesn't even know _what_ to call it.

 _It's complicated_ , he thinks wryly, but if Kyrat can't manage reliable Wi-Fi then it sure as hell doesn't have any use for Facebook- which means, mercy of mercies, that he doesn't have to worry about putting a name to his strange relationship with Sabal. What it was before...and whatever it's turned into now.

There's a part of him that sees it, this shift from rebel to ruler (to warlord, to Himalayan ice-cold eyes); sees it and likes it. The change is one that scares him shitless, makes his mouth go dry with lust. Stirs his blood like hunting leopards by moonlight. And that can't be healthy, but he's not exactly perfect. At least he still has enough pride not to just bare his throat and wait for bloodshed. Too much pride, and a lingering belief that if he gives it time, if he's patient enough, if he's _considerate_ , things might go back to how they were. Fuck, he misses the Sabal he laughed with once, after a week on ice and a few too many days in Durgesh. That's the man he wants back. That's the man he wants, in every way possible.

They haven't- They never- There's nothing that happened between them that could be used by an enemy, for blackmail or whatever. Nothing happened, though for a few seconds in the Ghale homestead, with his bones still chilled and his muscles still screaming, he almost changed that. He wanted to. Settled instead for the things Sabal said ( _you look good; I prayed constantly for your safe return_ ), for awkward, embarrassed laughter and the things he implied, for the way he leant in too close and stayed too long. For the silent promise that, when the war was won, they'd find time to see if it would work.

And yeah, he fell for that. Fell hard, and he's still falling.

 _Lot of people fall around here_ , he thinks. _And I'm one of them. Fuck, that's depressing._

If he's going to hit the ground anyway, he figures he might as well go out with an explosion.

"Don't call me that anymore," he says flatly. " _Son of Mohan_. I get that it means something to you, like my- like Mohan did, but I'm done with being the walking legacy. Pagan's gone. Amita's gone. I just... I don't think it's too much to ask for people to actually learn my name now. Because _Mohan_ isn't coming back, and I'm the one you're stuck with. Sorry."

He expects anger. Expects to be yelled at, maybe shamed into submission, because he's stepping out of line here and he knows it. There's a nice, tidy little box the Golden Path stuffed him into when he first arrived - _Ghale, Mohan Ghale's heir, son of Mohan_. He's their legend's kid, come back home in the name of vengeance for his dad's murder. And yeah, he can see how that would work for them; it's pretty inspiring stuff. Quentin Tarantino would eat it right up, and then want to know why it's only the animals that Ajay skins. These last few months have been like something out of a movie.

And it's all bullshit. Mohan Ghale's legacy is the tattered scraps of his fading diary, and a dead little girl no one else knows about.

If they want to call him _anything_ other than his actual name, they can start with _son of Ishwari_.

He expects anger, and he's ready for it. Maybe that's the best outcome here; Sabal yells at him for disrespecting his idol's legacy, and maybe he finally grows the balls to yell back. They could throw a few punches, sort out all this damn tension and go back to being comfortable around each other. It'd be like therapy, in a way. And honestly, he thinks he might even enjoy getting his knuckles bloody right now.

Mohan's not around to take the punches, but Sabal seems pretty damn desperate to be the guy, and Ajay clenches his fists where they rest against the chair back; waits for a chance, because he's _ready_.

What he isn't expecting is a crooked smile, for Sabal to shake his head and laugh like he was waiting for this.

" _What_?" he snaps, but it comes out more pleading than aggressive. Story of his life, right there.

"I'd wondered when this would come up," Sabal tells him. "You, the things you've done... Mohan gave us the weapons to fight, it's true, but _you_ won this war, brother. That more than earns you the right to be called whatever suits you. Although," he shrugs apologetically, "It may take time before the rest of the Golden Path understands. Old habits die hard, as they say. As for me... You only ever had to ask, Ajay."

He unclenches his fists slowly. It's hard to come down from that kind of adrenaline charge, and he was ready to fight over this- but he breathes in deep and lets his body soften up into something less predatory.

"Works for me," he says, when he can. "I appreciate it."

Sabal lifts his chin in acknowledgement. Somewhere outside, the fireworks start up again; this time, Ajay limits his reaction to a flinch. "Sounds like quite the party."

"Can you blame them? They're free now."

"Good point."

Sabal offers a hand and Ajay lets himself be pulled to his feet. Half time's over, it seems, and now they're heading back out into the crowds. He hasn't asked even half the questions he had lined up, but somehow it feels like he doesn't need to anymore. As if, just by being here, just by talking to him, Sabal's managed to reverse the damage he did at Jalendu. And that...wasn't part of the plan.

 _I can see what you're doing here_ , Ajay thinks, but it's half-hearted. He follows Sabal to the door, stops when he does. Obedient, as always.

"Question me if you must, by all means," Sabal says over his shoulder. "I trust your judgement and I'd welcome your input. But it must stay between the two of us, you understand? We can't have a repeat of Jalendu. Not right now. You put me in a bad position there; I can't have that happen again. You do understand, don't you, Ajay?"

"I...yeah. I get it. I'll be more careful."

"Good. Glad you're here, brother. There's no one I'd rather have at my back." And he smiles as he says it, reaches for Ajay's wrist and squeezes. Tugs him towards the door, towards the fireworks and cheering and distant laughter. They're _his_ people too now, and America's fading into the back of his head (his passport's somewhere at the homestead, but he's fucked if he can remember exactly where and it's not like it really matters). This, in a way, is a homecoming.

Scary thought.

"Coming?" Sabal asks.

Ajay surrenders to the grip on his wrist. "Yeah, I'm coming. Just- please, no speeches, okay? I'm not so good with the whole public speaking thing. Tell people I'm real happy for them all, whatever they want to hear."

"Strong but silent, is it? Relax." He pauses, eyes kind (and that's a rare thing these days; it's like Sabal is losing the part of himself that's capable of kindness, like he doesn't have time for it anymore). But the expression seems sincere enough and Ajay obeys the request. Lets some of the tension leave his shoulders, and with it discards some of his uncertainty. He wants this reassurance. He wants to believe in it. Feels lighter for it.

Feels a little like falling.

He closes his eyes as Sabal leans in to kiss his forehead. It's brief, but his breath lingers on Ajay's skin, makes him shiver. He marks the exact moment his resistance falls as easily as the weakest outpost. Just like that, he's done. He belongs to this man, as much as he did when he first arrived. Jalendu, Amita, her murdered loyalists- all forgiven. He's always been good at that. Not made to hold grudges, and up until now he'd assumed that was a strength.

"There's no one here who doesn't love you for what you've done, and no one who'll hold your imperfections against you," Sabal says, voice soft. Doesn't need to raise it to know Ajay will hang on to his every word. "I'll take care of the speeches. Show your face, that'll be enough for people."

"Thank you."

"We won't need to stick around long," he continues, and there it is, all the promise that's been missing from their recent interactions. The tilt to his lips, the look in his eyes that says, _later, later you and I will have business of our own to settle. Just wait for me a while longer._ "The party won't stop until dawn, but you're more than welcome to stay with me if you'd prefer. You never did see my Banapur residence, did you? It's modest, but comfortable. Survive an hour or so at the party, and then we can escape. I'd be grateful for a bit of peace, after everything."

There's a lot more there he doesn't say; Ajay swallows hard, his breathing suddenly shallow - and then Sabal is opening the door, vanishing into the night like a tiger on the hunt. Gone in the blink of an eye, leaving Ajay, shaken, in his wake.

 _I'm in too fucking deep_ , he thinks tiredly, but it's way too late for that kind of second-guessing, and with the door open the party seems suddenly a whole lot closer. On the breeze, smells of smoke and yeasty beer, weed and sweat and celebration. People in the streets, on rooftops and all over the nearby hills and fields. Some have candles. Some have traded those in for bonfires.

He doesn't think he's seen so many smiles in his _life_.

There's a ripple in the crowd where it parts like leaves in the breeze; he tracks Sabal with his eyes, follows in his wake before he realises what he's doing. Follows like he's been doing from the start.

Over his head, the fireworks; gold and blue and gold again, exploding like gunshots, bullets in the air. Bleeding down in rivulets, fading as they fall.


End file.
